The Brother Code
by librophile
Summary: After the Fall, Mycroft Holmes takes it upon himself to look after his brother's bereaved flatmate. A story told in drabbles. No slash.
1. Location

_Click._ The viewscreen focuses in on 221 Baker Street, and a pair of narrowed grey-green eyes quickly analyzes the scene. Only one inhabitant, apartment B obviously abandoned. No John Watson, then.

_Click_. A second screen lights up. This one is of the old apartment John was staying in before meeting Sherlock. The view on this scene, however, betrays the fact that the apartment is currently empty and the home of a married couple in which the husband is a clerk and the wife too interested in appearances.

_Click._ A third screen. A familiar, hospital issue cane leans against the doorframe. _There_.


	2. Black

It is raining. Night has long since fallen on the paved streets of London, and few would be out in this weather even had it not. A few subdued lights glitter through half-shuttered windows.

At the curb, a sleek black car pulls up, its sheen continually marred by splashes of airborn water molecules called back to earth. A tall, serious man dressed in a suit steps out, carrying the umbrella over his head instead of swinging from his hand as usual. He pauses in the doorway of the apartment, looking at the address plate – 221B – and, taking a breath, enters.

* * *

Rain is a soothing sound. By its quiet pattering and the feeble light of her phone, a black clad brunette taps away on her keypad, keeping her focus where her employer sometimes cannot – on their duty. The windows are awash with Heaven's tears, fading the world about into picturesque tones of black watercolor.

She sees movement out of the corner of her eye and moves to open the door of the car, stopping abruptly when she sees the man lying prone in her employer's arms. The latter looks almost worried.

Only his brother has ever drawn that emotion from him.

* * *

The world is black – now physically as well as mentally, as since his friend's death he has been unable to think of anything else. He cannot bring himself to care. No one needs him anymore, he is just another stranger...

Through the haze of distant war and rooftop descents he hears familiar tones – not those of the one he mourns, misses, but still familiar in a distant way. The voice is frightened, making him wonder if it is just another hallucination, come to torment him.

Arms tighten around him as he finally gives in to the blackness, safe at last.


	3. Fail

Mycroft breathed a heavy sigh, setting his hand briefly on the shoulder of the man who lay, unmoving, in the bed before him. He had gone to Baker Street personally after John failed to show himself for longer than he should have been able to, and found him like this... pale, worn, and unconscious from lack of caring for himself.

Harriet, John's sister, couldn't help. He'd contacted her earlier in the week and found she had recently checked into rehab.

Mycroft grasped his umbrella and stood, heading for the door.

He had failed one brother. He would not fail John.


	4. Wake

_Protect_. His life's theme, one by which his every breath had been drawn since he'd childishly taken the half-joking words, "Don't let anything happen to him," to heart. He'd overdone it, though – he'd always overdone it. That was why he was in the government instead of accounting, had sleek black cars instead of relying on something less ominous for transport, and had eyes – electronic, hired, simply observant – all over the city to cover the fact that he simply couldn't see how things worked for someone unlike himself and his brother.

Even betrayal was overdone, when it came down to it.

His brother had died, leaving not one but two bereaved brothers to mourn his loss, both blaming themselves for his demise – one rightfully, the other out of that sense of moral _goodness_ that had drawn both Holmeses to him in the first place. The first buried himself in his work. The second had none.

But it was by that word _Protect_ that he lived – still lived, even though Sherlock did not.

Mycroft was still there by John's bedside, umbrella propped absently beside him as if in some last defiance of normalcy, when the weakened doctor finally chose to wake up.


	5. Grudge

John's view was blurry upon opening his eyes, and it took two hard blinks before the swirling colors above his head coalesced into something resembling a room instead of the view through a kaleidoscope. A clear view, though, only seemed to add to his worries as he realized that not only wasn't this where he had fallen asleep, but the room was far too opulent to belong to anyone but either some other sociopath he hadn't had the misfortune of meeting yet or Sherlock's estranged brother, Mycroft Holmes.

Given a choice, he rather preferred the sociopath view at the moment.


	6. Care

Someone cleared his throat and John stiffened. He slowly turned his head on the pillow until he met the eyes of Mycroft Holmes, looking at him with a blankly calm expression as he always had in the past.

"Hello, John."

John turned his face away, feeling his face twist bitterly. "What do you want, Mycroft." Despite the bitterness he had expected to hear in his own tone, his voice was tired, toneless and almost thready.

Mycroft let a twitch of real expression show on his face before it vanished into his emotionless façade. He looked at John somewhat sternly. "You haven't been taking care of yourself, John."

John closed his eyes – not wanting to look at the elder Holmes any longer – and replied lowly, "There isn't a reason to."

Mycroft felt a tight pang somewhere in his chest and frowned at the odd feeling, trying to place it. It was a foreign sensation. John didn't notice his second show of emotion; he still had his eyes closed. "Just... go away, Mycroft," the worn former-army doctor muttered. "Just leave me alone."

* * *

_I personally can't decide whether or not Mycroft was in on Sherlock's little stunt, so I decided to leave that purposely ambiguous. Your thoughts?_


	7. Omniscient

He had always struggled with loyalty. Family was a given, but not to be trusted; any ordinary work job had the potential of deception; he had no friends himself, given his odd personality quirks. Given these facts, his area of work was all he _could_ do – a principle could not betray him.

Given, government work was difficult. It was an interminable balancing act of world-wide proportions, where the slightest slip could cost countless lives. But his mind thrived on the difficult, and his position gave him the resources to finally care for the little brother he had neglected before.

Sherlock was gone now, but those resources and that care weren't going to waste. Part of his electronic surveillance remained on Sherlock's old haunts – if his employees wondered at this apparent show of sentimentality, they kept it to themselves. The other parts were divided equally over Sherlock's associates. Even Anderson had narrowly missed several attempts on his life, first because of his association with Sherlock and later for his betrayal of the same.

Most of the security team, however, focused on John.

Mycroft sat in his office, staring thoughtfully at the phone placed on his desk. John had fallen asleep shortly after their stunted conversation and Mycroft had gone to work as usual immediately following, leaving several trusted men to guard the doctor and inform him if the man woke.

No one had noticed that John Watson was missing yet.

On some level that troubled him. Most likely it was a lingering sense of concern for John in connection with his brother.

Mycroft reached for the phone and lifted it to his ear. He hadn't taken a day off from work since the day he'd begun. They could spare him for twenty-four hours.


	8. Clean

Harriet gripped her hands together unhappily. Her brother – _her baby brother_ – was in trouble, was hurting, and she couldn't help him because she was in _this place_ and couldn't get out because she'd signed herself into rehab. She knew she could get herself thrown out; she'd done it before. Three times, actually. All it took was one drink, one slip...

But no. That would just get her in even deeper, and might even be the final push that would send John right over the edge. She didn't want to do that to him.

She had been so angry with him – with the world, actually – for years. But after nearly two weeks without alchohol Harriet couldn't think of why she had been like that.

Again, she had never made it this far before.

If someone else checked her out it could work. Harriet frowned. She didn't know anyone, though – outside of John she doubted anyone cared.

She remembered John telling her, one time when they caught each other in relatively good moods and before his flatmate's suicide, about his flatmate's brother and how he seemed to be able to get permission for just about – anything...

Harriet unwound her hands and sat up straight.

_ It could work... But how would I contact him? And would he even want to help me visit John?_

But her cell phone still had the man's – number withheld – contact from earlier, and all it would take is one button...

Harriet bit her lip and pressed _Send_.


	9. Connections

The harried flow of London streets slid through crowded intersections and hurried on its way as the light turned to yellow. The traffic light turned red, stood that way for a moment, then abruptly turned back to green as a sleek black car with no markings silently slipped through.

Inside, Mycroft Holmes sat contemplatively upon the seat. His hands were clasped gently around the ever-present umbrella on his lap, and his brow was furrowed as he considered what manner of reception he was likely to receive upon his arrival home. His current house-guest was rather volatile in the best of circumstances; the fact that John was there against his will was likely to exacerbate the situation long before it got better.

As if his thoughts had triggered it, his phone chimed with a text. He frowned slightly; it couldn't be John, Sherlock was dead, and Anthea wasn't going to trouble him on this rare day off.

He opened the text and raised an eyebrow as he saw its contents.

_ 'Mr. Holmes, I want to see my brother and I need your help to do it. Since your call earlier_...' It continued in the same brusque manner, detailing information for if he actually deigned to offer his assistance.

Mycroft read through the message three times before lowering his phone. Who would have thought the tentative relationship between Harry Watson and her brother would lead to this?

For once, he wasn't sure whether to ignore the call or – foreign for him – actually accept a request from a stranger.

A minute later Mycroft tapped his phone and then lifted it to his ear. "Anthea," he greeted her. While he had decided to take the day off, he'd rightly suspected that she had stayed. "There's a small matter that has been brought to my attention..."


	10. Whim

It wasn't as if Mr. Holmes was an ordinary man. Oh, no – as far as employers went, he was likely the most eccentric man she had ever encountered (except, perhaps, his late brother), though you could nearly set your watch by his outward schedule. It wasn't as if this was the first time Mr. Holmes had called in odd requests, either. Usually he left Anthea to draw her own, mostly accurate conclusions based on the data provided; on extremely rare occasions he would inform her of the situation. His private life – whatever it consisted of – remained a mystery to most people.

"Excuse me sir, Harry..." Seated in a chair in her employer's office, Anthea waited expectantly, legs crossed and one foot bobbing absently up and down.

"Harriet Watson," her employer's voice replied curtly through her phone's speaker. "Sister to Doctor Watson."

She raised an eyebrow and typed at her phone for a moment before responding into the enhanced speaker installed in her phone for such purposes. "I have it, sir. Harriet Watson, checked into a rehabilitation facility..." She checked the date. "... three weeks ago, under the self-imposed condition that under no circumstances was she to be allowed to check herself out. She had it legally backed by the local court."

There was silence for a moment, then Mr. Holmes spoke slowly. "Arrange for a one-day pass for Miss Watson and have her picked up and delivered to my home."

Her other eyebrow rose. _Just what is he up to? First Doctor Watson, now his sister..._ "Yes sir," Anthea replied calmly, none of her thoughts betrayed in her voice or expression. Mycroft Holmes trained his staff well. "And this will be...?"

"Today," the calm voice replied smoothly. "I'd like to see things concluded here as quickly as possible." The line went dead.

Anthea shook her head slightly in bemusement and began typing.


	11. Guilty

_Meanwhile, back at the Yard..._

"I want to apologize to John."

Lestrade abruptly choked on his coffee. After he had stopped coughing, he wiped his eyes and looked at Sally disbelievingly from his seat in the station's break room. "I think I misheard you."

"You heard me," she snapped, losing the slight control she had displayed originally. "I want to – apologize to John for what happened to..." She trailed off, both of them mentally filling in the blank with the name _Sherlock_. "We were – _I_ was wrong, and I want him to know that. I was just wondering if you had a good idea of who to send to tell him for me." She sat abruptly and folded her arms, her features relaxing slightly now that the words were said.

Lestrade blinked. When had he become the official source of information concerning all-things-Sherlock? And John, by association. The grey-haired DI let out a heavy breath and unconsciously ran a disbelieving hand over his temples. What were the odds that in one month's time, both of them would...

"All right," he said aloud. Donovan looked at him blankly. "Come on."

She stood immediately, a habitual scowl on her face at the unwanted order. "Where are we going?"

"Baker Street. It's as good a time as any."

A fleeting look of alarm crossed her features. "Now wait a minute. After what he did to the Chief Superintendant..."

"He's too much of a gentleman to punch a lady in the face without warning. And it will come better from you than me."

Sally paused, then nodded decisively.


	12. Conventional

Codes – riddles, really, a form of amusement for a Holmes and bewilderment for many others. Most people you simply solved the traits of, acted accordingly and had them in your hands. John wasn't like that.

He had puzzled both Holmes brothers from day one, leaving Sherlock fascinated and Mycroft wary as his governmental position had taught him. Somehow the man had integrated himself into Sherlock's life – and Mycroft's, by extension.

Contacting John's next-of-kin in this situation was hardly required, and helping her escape rehab was certainly beyond what was called for. Mycroft briefly wondered why he hadn't just called Lestrade or someone else to care for the man, why he felt obligated to care.

After all, John was not his brother.


	13. Reminiscent

_"Hurry, John, we're losing him!" Sherlock yells over his shoulder, lengthening his already ridiculously long stride until he's bounding like a jackrabbit after the fleeing felon. John unconsciously accelerates his own pace to a rate that would make his army friends blink, but for him this is normal – chasing his best friend madly through the city, adrenaline rushing through them both and laughter bubbling just beneath each panting breath. Behind them Lestrade shouts in exasperation before turning to his squad car as John and Sherlock vanish around the corner._

_ After a flying tackle flattens their quarry to the ground three blocks later, John stands and glances over to meet Sherlock's gaze. They both just stare for a moment, Sherlock's hair wild and coat only half-fastened while his eyes gleam triumphantly, John's jumper rumpled and eyes glowing with satisfaction. If it hadn't been for the complete lack of symmetry in their features, they might have been mistaken for brothers. They hold each other's gaze for a moment._

_ A moment later they both burst out into laughter._

For the first time in months, John awakened with a wistful smile still lingering on his face.

* * *

Harriet Watson shifted nervously on the leather seat for the fourth time in as many minutes. This was nothing like anything she had expected – first having one of the supervisors call her to the discharge office to meet a man who, though he almost looked related, had absolutely _no_ connection to either she or her brother, but proceeded to produce paperwork saying he _was_, in fact, her brother, and would they please hurry up with the paperwork so that he could spend some time with her. They had hardly made it out the door when a black, unmarked limo pulled smoothly up to them, and within moments they were pulling away in the direction of London.

She almost shifted again, but stopped herself abruptly. The black-clad brunette on the seat beside her gave her a sympathetic, almost absent smile before turning back to her phone, leaving Harriet essentially alone in the vehicle.

It wasn't such a bad ride, really, just intimidating. The old Harry, the one who had been there when John returned from the war, would have been able to handle this, probably insulting the driver, her supposed brother, and her current companion. In fact, the old Harry would have probably expressed more interest in the situation completely.

Then again, more than Harry Watson had disappeared two months ago.

She only hoped she wasn't going to end up tied up in some abandoned warehouse. What had her brother gotten himself involved in, anyway?


	14. Stone

The building rose, tall and imposing, toward the skyline in endless patterns of gray stone. Harriet stared upward in disbelief. She'd expected to be taken to a hospital or someone's back room – not a veritable mansion on the outskirts of London. Surely this wasn't her destination? She'd pictured something else, not... this.

The limousine pulled to a smooth, soundless halt outside the door, and Harriet automatically pushed the door open and stepped out onto the black pavement. The front walk, which the vehicle had stopped in front of, was lined with precisely clipped trees and shrubs. _This is a mansion!_

The silent brunette stepped out her door as Harriet's pseudo-brother exited the front passenger seat.

"So what now?" Harriet demanded brusquely, whirling on her escorts/hosts/abductors. "Where's John?"

"I'm to take you to Mr. Holmes," the brunette replied calmly, still tapping away on her phone. "You should see Doctor Watson soon."

The older, female Watson was just turning to follow the stranger when the stubborn streak of Watson-brand curiosity – of the sort that had tempted John into the war – struck Harriet and she turned to see her initial escort. "If you're my brother," she commented sarcastically, "What's your name?"

"Xavier," he replied calmly, then slipped back into the limousine, which immediately pulled away.

_Xavier? What kind of name is that?_ Harriet turned to ask her companion, then stopped in surprise at the genuine amusement on the latter's face as she glanced after the departing vehicle.

The black-clad brunette looked at her, looking away from her phone for the first time, and asked innocently, "Should we go in?"

* * *

_*Author's note: I finally managed to write an update! It's hard to write when you have a pretty good idea what's going on, but your characters have gone into hiding. :/ Lol_

_Oh, and anonymous reviewer 'Someone' - you _really_ need to get a profile. I want to be able to respond to some of your great comments and questions!  
_


End file.
